


The Metaphoric Wall

by my_unlikely_hero



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gil needs a break, It's between Malcolm and OC, JT is a badass, M/M, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, The rape is not between Malcolm and JT, dead dove do not eat, if you don't like it, leave, malcolm needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22839118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_unlikely_hero/pseuds/my_unlikely_hero
Summary: “Check it out, Bright. You have a dopple-ganger.” JT greets Malcolm as he comes inside.The body is still in his bed. His eyes are still open, fogged over and blue, rimmed with thick lashes. His brown hair is long and obviousy styled with care, even if the sex and murder has mussed it. He has a big mouth. His naked body is under a sheet.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright/OC
Comments: 11
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me start by saying that the purity police have gone off the rails. So, if at any point you find yourself not liking this fic, or some of it's content, please feel free to leave without commenting. I will not be taking rude criticism. Any unfriendly comments will be deleted. 
> 
> That being said, this is what it says on the tin, a rape and recovery fic. If this is your cup of tea, i hope you like it. I would love friendly comments, I just got tired of seeing the bullshit purity police leaving judgmental comments on everyone's works.

“Check it out, Bright. You have a dopple-ganger.” JT greets Malcolm as he comes inside. 

The body is still in his bed. His eyes are still open, fogged over and blue, rimmed with thick lashes. His brown hair is long and obviousy styled with care, even if the sex and murder has mussed it. He has a big mouth. His naked body is under a sheet. 

“Bright would make a prettier body,” Edrisa says, looking up at Malcolm with a smile that crinkles her eyes. JT doesn’t understand their weird relationship, but he’s pretty sure Bright isn’t entirely straight. He hopes Edrisa is up for a little competition. 

“He looks nothing like me,” Malcolm argues. “I’m five foot seven, this man is clearly at least six feet tall. Also, I don’t wear makeup. This man is wearing eyeliner and body glitter. My guess is he came back from a club.” 

“You don't need makeup. And he did,” Dani says. “Stamp on his hand is from a club a few blocks down.” 

Bright lifts the sheet up from the body while everyone but Edrisa looks away. “Along with the obvious beating, there are bruises on the thighs, groin, stomach, and arms. Those are usually signs of sexual assault. We may be able to get some DNA off the body,” he says to Edrisa. “There aren’t any bruises on the vic’s hands, which makes me think that he may have been drugged.”

Edrisa nods from her place at the back of the group. “I’ll run a tox screen when he gets him back to the lab. But it wasn’t alcohol that our victim choked on. There was clear bruising on his throat from strangulation. Judging from the size of the marks, the murderer is probably a large man. You know what they say about big hands…” Edrisa trails off suggestively. 

“Big gloves,” Malcolm finishes for her, the joke passing between them. 

Dani rolls her eyes and JT gives Malcolm a slow once-over, trying to judge Malcolm’s mental state based on how many hours of sleep he’s had in the last week. 

“What?”

“Bad timing,” Dani complains. 

JT nods. “When’s the last time you slept, man?”

“Bold of you to assume I sleep,” Malcolm says with a pointed finger and a wide smile. “I haven’t slept in four days. But I haven’t yet started to hallucinate, so I’m fine.” 

“Are you though?” Again, JT gives Malcolm a look. Bright takes that as cue to widen his smile further. 

Gil claps his hand. “Children! The case, please. One thing at a time. The door was left unlocked, but the killer didn’t break in. It’s safe to assume that the victim knew their killer. There have been four similar murders spanning the last few months. They’re getting closer together, though.” 

“The killer is escalating,” Malcolm supplies. 

“Exactly.” 

****************************************************************

Back at the precinct, a board is put together. Four more pictures are pinned up, along with bullet points like where and when they had been found. Bright reads them carefully in turn and notes the plethora of similarities. All of the victims were found in their homes, strangled. The first three victims had come back with toxins in their body, and Bright was willing to bet that the last would as well. They had all been found in their bedrooms. They all shared dark hair and blue eyes. They’re all fairly fit and fairly good looking. They had all been raped, too, and that fact made his teams stomachs churn. 

“The last two were more violent. You were right when you said he was escalating. I have reason to believe that he’s, um.” Edrisa pauses. She looks somber. “That he may be becoming a necrophiliac. The first two didn’t have the same… treatment… as the last two.”

As usual, Malcolm is the first one to compartmentalize the knowledge. Perk of growing up with a serial killer. “Has he been killing the victims in the act, or is he raping them before and after?”

“Before and after,” Edrisa supplies with a swallow. 

Malcolm considers. “Killing them isn’t part of the fantasy. It’s a side effect. Probably to cover his tracks and keep his victims from talking, but he can’t stop himself from going for round two.” Malcolm’s gaze wanders and drifts as his thoughts connect. "It’s not about the victims, they’re just a catalyst. There’s someone else, someone he really wants. His prize, if you will. He's so obsessed that he can't stop himself, even after they're dead. He's practicing his desires on other victims as placeholders, perfecting his experience. And if he's escalating already, he'll get his prize soon."

“How long do you think we have,” Gil asks. “Can you give us a timeline to work with?”

“I can’t be sure-”

“Are we seriously moving past the part where Bright is exactly this dude’s type? Is nobody talking about this? Because I have some fucking concerns.” 

“Jimmothy, I didn’t know you cared,” Malcolm exclaims. “I assure you, I am far too mentally damaged to be anyone’s type.” 

“Christ,” Gil sighs into his palm. 

"You're still my type," Edrisa says quietly. "Just kidding. I mean, what?" 

Well, JT thinks to himself, at least he isn't the only morosexual in the room. How Bright can be so smart and still so goddamn stupid is a mystery. The guys going to give him early greys. 

"So how do we figure out who his next target is? How do we stop him," Dani asks. 

"Well," Malcolm starts. "He will be stalking his prize, keeping a watchful eye and obsessing from a safe distance. The prize may even know our murderer. But our victims were chosen purely for their looks. Our murderer would have found them by chance, got the victims to take them home. We don't know when he will find his next victim. We can't wait around for him to finally find his prize- he will only find a new one to chase after and the cycle will begin again."

"Okay, here's the plan. We cross examine the victims closests and see if there are any common connections- a gym, a barber, anything. And keep your heads up." Gil pauses when he catches Bright's eyes. Gil raises a brow in silent question but all Malcolm does is try to placate him with a practiced smile that Gil doesn't believe for a second. 

As usual Malcolm volunteers first. "I'll take the latest victim. I want to go over the place and check with the neighbors. There's a good chance one of them may have heard something or maybe even seen our suspect."

"I'll go with him," JT is quick to add. He doesn't want Malcolm wandering alone with a serial rapist running around looking for sandy haired, blue eyed twinks. 

"Aw, I didn't know you cared. Have I been upgraded to first-name status yet? Jeptha?" 

"Shut up.  _ Bright _ . Just for that, you're buying coffee."

"Oh good! I know of a little artisan cafe right near the Vic's place. Coffee from Saudi Arabia, prepared in the tradition way. It's supposed to be a nice little pick me up, and I could really go for one of those about now. You'll like it. The reviews said there was a great selection, so you're bound to find something you'll like."

JT lets Malcolm fill the silence with a long ramble about coffee and the apparently dubious ethics, until they get to the shop. Malcolm pays for drinks so high priced that JT actually swallows while Malcolm barely bats an eye. And then the rest of the blessedly short ride is listening to Malcolm sing praises about the thick coffee, about the size of a shot glass. The good thing about Malcolm is that he never makes JT converse back. If JT doesn't feel like it he can remain silent and Malcolm is happy to keep rambling without any offense taken. 

The apartment is cordoned off with police tape. Malmolm returns to the bedroom first, carefully categorizing his surroundings and setting a mental reenactment for the scene of the crime. 

"Hey Bright, this may change your profile a bit. Lock's been picked. The Vic didn't take the suspect home; the suspect picked the lock. Professional work, too."

Malcolm's eyes brighten from more than just the caffeine buzz- he has a clue to add to his puzzle. 

"We should check to see how many locksmiths have been fired in the last few months. The position is fairly strict, and if there is even a hint of misconduct the company will fire the worker. Losing his job may have been a stresser for the suspect." 

"That may take some time. Want me to drop you at home? No way you're driving like this." JT nods downward. 

Malcolm's hands are more than just shaking. Between the sleep deprivation and the sudden burst of caffeine, his entire body is vibrating but his hands are too twitchy to hold his phone much less control the steering for his expensive fancy car. 

"Then one more helping hand will help the time pass quicker, right? Besides, I may catch something you guys haven't picked up on. It can't be that long of a list, a couple of hours tops. I'll go home after, I promise." 

They're wrong. There a couple of people fired from various companies just like Malcolm had suspected. But more than that, an entire company went under and left over a dozen people unemployed. Combined, there are over thirty suspects. 

"Go home, kid," Gil claps Malcolm ok the shoulder and gives him a spin towards the door. "JT, please escort mister Bright home before he breaks his nose falling on our floors."

"Yes, sir." 

For once Malcolm doesn't argue. He's just starting to hallucinate and experience has taught him that those are best dealt with at home.

  
  


*****************

  
  


Malcolm Bright returns home rather early, but that just means Walter gets to see his little bird early. Malcolm is just like a little bird, it's one of the charms that drew Walter to him. The little bird is always fluttering around, chattering and animated. He even has a little flock of his own, the parakeet that sleeps in a cage in Malcolm's kitchen. 

He watches Malcolm and counts down the seconds until he knows Malcolm will unlock the door. He can just see the very edge of the front door through the position of the big bay window, but he gets such a wonderful view every night when Malcolm undresses. And what Malcolm does in that bed before he locks himself down for the night, is always quite a fun show to watch. Now, Walter doesn't have to be content to just watch. He's so tired of waiting, of practicing on those subpar boys. His act is as perfect as it will ever be. Only best for The Surgeon's son. Malcolm bright is a genius in his own right, even without the fame of his father. 

Walter wonders what he can get away with taking as a momentum of the occasion. Some hair would be nice to add to the collection of new articles, photos, and stolen mail. Or maybe something more intimate, like a nice bit of blood. On his underwear, perhaps, as a sentimental way of memorializing his little bird. He hasn't decided yet, but he has all night to do it. 

He waits and watches Malcolm shower before he crawls into bed and buckles his wrists in for the night. They're stronger now, Walter notices. Upgraded from the flimsier version after his little bird had nearly taken a leap out of the window. They're stronger than the easy-release type. Walter knows because he spent hours learning about restraints when he learned Malcolm used them nightly. That had been some interesting research, but enough for Walter to know which kind to bring to on his own. Something that Malcolm can't release himself out of. Walter turns the vices over in his hand, testing them yet again. The leather is soft but strong. Only the best for Malcolm. 

Finally Malcolm settles into a sleep and Walter takes advantage of the opportunity while it lasts. The boy is a terribly fitful sleeper. Hands shaking with excitement, Walter slips a pill into his mouth. He wants this to last. 

Breaking in is easy. He's already done it once, to feed the parakeet. And to take Malcolm's comb, not that he noticed it missing. The second time is easier, and Walter savors the moment. This will be the last time he opens this door. The last time he saw his little bird. This moment is worth savoring. How very perfect it is that Malcolm lives alone in this renovated old building, built strong enough to withhold the screaming.

Malcolm doesn’t even manage peace while he sleeps. His head tosses back and forth, his soft mouth parting into a frown. Walter can’t help but to pet his fingers through Malcolm’s soft hair. It’s already tangled from all of the tossing and it’s hard to resist the urge to pull it. One thing at a time. Walter carefully loops Malcolm’s hands through the second set of restraints, which he ties to the Malcolm’s set that are still bolted to the floor. Malcolm isn’t getting away before Walter is done with him. 

For such a light sleeper, Malcolm doesn't seem to notice when Walter swings his leg up over the bed. He looks down at Malcolm, memorizing the lines of his face. He fits so perfectly between Walter's legs. He's happy to wait and stare until Malcolm wakes up and it doesn't take long. Walter brushes a finger against his lips and Malcolm's eyes pop open, sudden and wide. Malcolms eyebrows scrunch together. 

"What's this? I dont- I don't understand." Malcolm thinks he’s still dreaming. "What kind of psychological manifestation are you? A subconscious fear? A desire?"

The man pets Malcolm's hair, following a line down his face to his lips. He doesn’t want his little bird diluting their experience together. 

"Don't play games with me, Malcolm. You've been investigating me." 

Malcolm is a smart man. He puts the pieces together and his eyes light with interest rather than fear. What a strange man. Walter loves that his bird is so much different from the other boys he has had. 

"The pretty boy killer," Malcolm supplies. He doesn't seem to notice the petting. Walter can see the thought whirring behind those bright eyes when he realizes that this isn't a dream. "You're here because I fit your profile.”

“You’re perfect,” Walter agrees. 

“But you don't have to do this,” Malcolm argues. He thinks he can talk his way out of this, like he doesn’t owe something to Walter for all of these weeks of parading himself in front of the open window for Walter and everyone else to see. “This isn't love. You don't need me to fill the hole that someone else left in you, you can't keep replacing someone important with people like me."

"Nobody could ever replace you, Malcolm.” How modest of his bird to think that he isn’t special enough to be so adored. “You're the son of The Surgeon. A graduate from Harvard. You are a genius in your own right and your lineage makes you exceptional. Exquisite. There will never be another man like you. You have to see how irresistable you are, my lovely little bird."

Realization dawns on Malcolm. "It's me. I'm your prize." 

Walter smiles. He likes the sound of that, Malcolm as his prize. It makes it sound like Walter has earned this moment. It's appropriate, he thinks. "And what a sweet prize you are."

Walter takes a knife from his pocket, aware of Malcolm watching his every move. From the corner of his eye he notices Malcolm taking advantage of the momentary 'distraction' to unlock his binds. Walter's, however, catch and stay. 

“Y-you cuffed me?” Malcolm sounds so confused. “You’ve been here before.” 

With one last careful pull, the knife slices through the stubborn colla of Malcolm’s shirt. He lies bare-chested below Walter, his muscles moving with every quickening breath. 

“I’ve been admiring you for quite a while now. Long enough to make sure you really were Doctor Whitley’s son. I learned your habits, made sense of your erratic schedule. I know you don’t sleep well, and that you toss and turn every night. You really are a magnificent man.”

Malcolm's skin is soft, his muscles firm beneath Walter's hands. Walter takes his time caressing and testing the muscles made from years of discipline. Those sinewy muscles twist as Malcolm tries to pull away, but it's futile. 

"Stop. Stop, please don't do this. What- what's your name?" Always so curious, his little bird is. 

"You can call me Walter."

"Walter. My grandfather’s name was Walter. Walter, you don't have to do this. Please." Malcolm’s begging is beautiful. Those big blue eyes widen and brighten with fear. His mouth parts open and it’s everything he can do not to put his finger on Malcolm’s tongue. 

Malcolm fights when Walter takes off Malcolm's boxers. Malcolm twists and lands a couple of kicks against Walter's chest and shoulders but it doesn't stop Walter. 

"You, you don't love me,” Malcolm stutters. “This isn't love, it's obsession that your mind is twisting. If you love something, truly, you want to let it grow; to let it flourish in every way that it can. I can get you help. Just please let me go. Walter, please."

Walter does not stop. He runs his hand over every inch of Malcolm's body, avoiding any flailing limbs. And when he has had his fill of petting, he strips himself. 

"No, no, stop. Listen, Walter, listen to me. I can help you. I can. I can get you therapy. I work with the NYPD, you know I do, I can get you help. Please, you have to stop.”

"Why would I stop now? I have you exactly where I want you. I can't be bought, I want to own you. I want to be the last thing you see, feel, and taste before you die."

This is happening. Malcolm's heart begins to gallop as Walter undresses himself. His adrenaline has his blood rushing around his ears but it doesn't help him escape his binds. He grits his teeth, afraid. He is desperately trying to find a way out of this, but nothing comes. Even Malcolm's phone is over in the kitchen, ringing. 

"It's Lieutenant Arroyo," Walter tells him. He lets it ring, though. Walter is not the type of man to goad on someone chasing him. This is obsession feuling him, not ego. 

"You know, I remember when your father was at the height of his criminal career. I followed him in the newspaper, from the first publicized murder all the way through the trials to his sentencing. I will say, the man has remarkable control of himself."

This man knows nothing of Martin Whitley but Malcolm sees the way the man speaks, trying to sound clever and knowledgeable about things. Why does everything seem to be about Martin Whitley?

"You're a smart man," Malcolm tries. "You know how important it is to control one's self. You admired my father, but let me tell you that he would abhor this loss of control. He wouldn’t want you to hurt me; to rape me and murder me."

"Trust me, Malcolm, when I say this is all about you."

Malcolm can't seem to look away as Walter walks toward him. Even now, Malcolm's brain won't stop analyzing every move. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. He can't seem to get enough air. A physical weight crushes into his chest with every step Walter comes closer. He watches the man roll a condom onto his hard cock. 

“Please, please no.”

In a sort of last effort, Malcolm kicks out. Walter catches his ankle and uses it to wrench Malcolm's hip up and out in the wrong sort of way. Malcolm feels his hip grind before he feels it pops out of place, dislocated. His tongue loosens and he screams. 

It takes several tries for Walter to push the head of his cock through Malcolm's tight entrance. The sounds that Malcolm makes are perfect, just now Walter knew it would be. And when he manages to seat himself fully after a few more attempts, he finds bliss. 

Malcolm doesn't talk much after that. There's some begging, of course, and some swearing. But mostly Malcolm reduces himself to a quivering, red faced mess. 

The complete and utter destruction of Malcolm Whitley is beautiful to behold. 

Malcolm thinks he feels his mind break, at one point. He practically heard the crack when it shattered into little pieces. 

His phone is ringing in the kitchen. There's something about having a helpline just out of reach, literally calling out to him, that sticks with him. Only this time Malcolm hopes he doesn't remember this. If he lives through this. He doesn't know how he's going to survive this. 

It's probably quicker than Malcolm thinks it is. Probably faster than most of Malcolm's hookups. Logically, he knows this. But it feels like an eternity with every sharp thrust burning inside of him. Every movement of Walter's weight twisting Malcolm's dislocated hip. 

It stops, after a very short eternity. Walter ties the condom off and puts it somewhere to be disposed of away from the crime scene, Malcolm thinks. 

"Is this the part where you kill me?" Malcolm can't stop himself. His voice sounds wrong. His lips are numb. 

"Not yet," Walter begins, his voice husky from exertion and arousal. "I recently found myself wanting my time with you to last longer. I want the scent of you to stay with me forever. So I got a little help to my repertoire.”

Repertoire is not the right word, but Malcolm won't bother correcting the man. But if Walter has been using pills to keep his erection, it would explain the… enthusiasm with which he used his partner. It sounds like the man has been having adverse effects to the medication. It isn’t meant to last so long. 

Dread pools in Malcolm’s gut. "You've been using Viagra to help you rape your victims." 

"Why stop after one round when I can enjoy you all night?"

It doesn't take long for Walter to renew his arousal. This time, Malcolm nearly bites his own tongue off in an attempt not to scream. He keeps thinking that if he can keep the man entertained for long enough, it gives his team more time to find him. He would give anything for Gil to arrest the newest monster in his life. 

There is a clock on the microwave that Malcolm can just read from his position. Hours have passed now, longer than he would have liked. His phone stopped ringing after round two. 

Whatever drugs Walter is taking are stronger than Viagra because it looks like the man is ready for round three. Malcolm has gone mostly numb from the hips down, save for the occasional throb. He's bleeding, he knows. He saw the streaks of blood on Walter's condom and can feel it between his thighs. He thinks absurdly that it's staining the Egyptian cotton sheets.

Walter's hands wrap around Malcolm's throat. This is it, Malcolm thinks. This is the final round. The end of the countdown is drawing closer. He presses over Malcolm’s pulse points and cuts off the oxygen. Malcolm’s head spins as his oxygen is cut off in bursts, leaving behind a feeling that is almost euphoric. Walter likes to look into Malcolm’s eyes when he cums.


	2. Chapter 2

Partway through round three, Malcolm's door opens. Two things happen in quick succession. First JT's shot rings out around them, stilling the air. And then Walter drops on top of Malcolm. 

JT runs to close the space between them and he pulls the body off of Malcolm and lets it drop to the floor. Malcolm is frozen for a moment. 

Malcolm licks his lips and isn't sure if the blood he tastes is his own, or the rapists. He's staring at JT, afraid to look away. He licks his lips again. 

"You-" Malcolm's voice breaks. "You were right. I’m his type." 

"Now's not the time, man. Let's get you an ambulance." JT has his phone out, dialing. He orders two busses and Gil. 

"Help?" Malcolm pulls at his cuffs. "I'm, I'm still stuck." 

JT hates the quiver in Malcolm's voice. He looks distant, still. Logically Malcolm knows that it’s the shock. But it’s still eery to see Malcolm looking so lifeless. JT looks at the tangle of cuffs- two sets, one locked and one ha going free. He doesn't want to ask why Malcolm has a set of BDSM cuffs bolted into his bed. The locked set takes a key, and TJ doesn't see any. 

"I don't have a key, wait until the ambulance comes. They should have bolt cutters or something."

"You're smart," Malcolm snaps. "Figure something out. Pick the locks, I know you can. Or hell, choose an axe in the next room. Just get me off of this fucking bed!"

JT is going to have nightmares of this, he knows. Malcolm cuffed down to his own bed with blood between his thighs. The bruising is all over, but the worst of it is around Malcolm's hips and neck. Where the perp had gripped and choked him how many times. 

So no, JT is not going to make Malcolm stay on that bed. Not when Malcolm is looking at him with his eyes foggy and desperate. 

"Okay. I got you. I'll find something. Stay calm for a minute." 

It's hard to walk away but JT has a mission to do, something that he can do to help. 

A set of fondue forks should do the trick. It takes some time, even though JT hates the feeling of hovering over the man. He can hear the catch on Malcolm's breath. Up close now, he can see one of Malcolm's legs isn't sitting quite right. The smell of sex is stronger near the bed. 

As soon as the cuffs are open, Malcolm tears himself away from the bed with a pained moan. He rolls off onto the floor before JT can catch him. Malcolm used his uninjured leg to scoot even further back, until JT gets the hint and helps pull Malcolm back. He drags Malcolm to the top of the stairs where all of his fancy expensive coats have been hung in a nice little coat closet. It's the only place in the flat where they can't see Malcolm's bed. He leans bright near the wall. 

"Okay. You still with me?"

"Do I have to be?"

"Shit," JT swears under his breath. "Yeah. Yeah you do. Just until the bus gets here, alright? You gotta stay with me."

Malcolm can't even bring himself to reply to that. "Um," he clears his throat. "Can I ask a favor? In my dresser, the third drawer is sweatpants. Top left is shirts. Can I- can you please-uh-". 

Malcolm is having a difficult time keeping his thoughts straight. It's an effort to speak through the thick fog in his head. Shock, he knows. Arguably, he's never had an experience so traumatic before and his brain is dissociating to protect him. Malcolm needs to be covered. Protected. He just doesn't want people looking at him, and the thought of that makes him feel like breaking apart and so he doesn't. He focuses on moving forward, on what needs to be done. He's a cop, former FBI, he can get through this. 

JT spies the cut clothes that have been discarded on the floor. The knife is there, too. 

"I'm on it." JT tries to save him the trouble of speaking. Sweatpants he can do. He can get the sweatpants and help Malcolm dress and then help cover him up with another layer when the man won’t stop shivering. 

The ambulance arrives and Gil closely follows. The EMT’s try giving JT a lecture on not moving an injured person, but JT knows if he were in the position again, he would do the same. Leaving Malcolm to sit in that bed would have been its own separate torture. 

Malcolm can’t stop the pained noise that escapes when they move him onto the gurney. They help Malcolm before they take care of the other man’s body. They try to get Malcolm strapped into the gurney, but all hell breaks loose when the safety straps come out. 

“Let go of me!” Malcolm elbows the nearest EMT in the chin and the man falls back. Malcolm’s eyes are wide and bright with fear. He doesn't see people who want to help. He sees Walter. “JT, please, please, I’m sorry. Don’t let them do this! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

JT grabs Malcolm’s arm just to keep him from falling off of the cot. He tries to say something placating but it becomes a full job trying to keep Malcolm from hurting someone. 

“Sir,” The EMT is trying to catch Malcolm’s eyes. “Sir, I need you to calm down for just a moment. We have to secure you, but it’s for your own safety.”

“No, please don’t. Please don’t touch me!”

Gil’s blood freezes at the panicked pitch in Malcolm’s voice. He’s never seen Malcolm so afraid in his life, not even when they arrested his father. Not when he was being shot at, or bitten by snakes, or chasing mad men through alleys. 

“Malcolm!” Gil fights his way through the chaos to get the man’s attention. “Malcolm, it’s me. It’s just me. You can calm down. Take a breath for me, kid.”

To his credit, Malcolm manages a shaky breath and calms down enough to focus on Gil. 

“Wh- who’s touching me? Gil, I don’t want- I can’t- please, not again-” the kid can’t even manage to get his words on straight. 

“It’s only JT. What’s happened?” This time Gil looks at JT. 

JT clamps his jaw shut and shakes his head. Not now, if ever. Even if the Lieutenant ordered it. 

“I- I’m his type,” Malcolm stutters senselessly. 

“Damn it,” JT curses. “Bright.”

“H- his name is Walter. Something. I don’t know, I don’t think he told me. He’s the- the um, the-” Malcolm’s breath starts to come quicker now. “He- he-.” Malcolm keeps tripping on his words. 

He looks to JT for help, eyes wide and desperate. Why did it have to be JT that found Malcolm? Anyone would be better. Literally anyone. Dani would know what to do. Obviously Gil is the an with the plan, as always. But it had to be JT to check Malcolm’s house. The door to the street had been closed but left unlocked and that had been concerning enough for him to let himself up. 

“I couldn’t-” Malcolm is still struggling to express himself. It must be hard to force the words out of your mouth like that. Especially since Malcolm is hyperventilating. His chest is rising and falling in rapid shallow breaths. 

One of the EMT’s takes their opening to shoot a syringe of sedative into Malcolm, while they have the chance. The effect is immediate and Malcolm sinks back into the padding of the gurney. He’s limp when they strap him in, and his head sways with every step they take. 

Gil watches them take Malcolm away and JT can see the heartbreak on his face. He knows the kind of strength it takes to stay here when someone you care about is hurting, but things need to be seen to here before they can meet Malcolm at the hospital. There’s still statements to be taken, JT’s mainly, and a body to account for. Gil moves to go inside until JT catches his arm. 

“Don’t look at the bed.” 

Gil tries to pull away but JT only grips him tighter. 

“Seriously, sir. I’ll be seeing that bed every time I close my eyes for a very long time. You don’t need to see that.” 

“What happened there?” 

“We got your murderer,” JT elaborates. 

“And Malcolm used himself as bait?” Gil’s voice raises in outrage. 

“Not quite. I think trouble found him this time.”

  
  


********************************************************************************************************

  
  


“Get off me! JT! Help me, please help me, please. Don’t touch me. Get off of me!”

The screaming draws JT and Gil through the door to Malcolm’s private room. They have been occupying the chairs outside for some time, taking up the post of gargoyles for some time now. There’s nobody there but Malcolm and he’s thrashing on his bed. Whatever drugs they’ve given him are wearing off and someone was cruel enough to strap him to the bed. 

“Goddamnit!” JT is the first to get there and he tears the bindings off of Malcolm’s arms. “What kind of fucking idiot put these on you, huh? It’s okay, I got you.” 

“JT,” Malcolm manages to growl out between his clenched teeth. “Get them off, get them off, please.”

“Yeah, I know. One more. Hang on, man. I got you.” 

Once the last strap is loosened, Malcolm wraps himself around JT. He buries his face in the black leather of his friend’s coat and just clings. JT wraps his arms around him after a beat. If JT needs to be the wall Malcolm has to put between himself and the world, he can do that. Malcolm is shaking. JT wonders if that will ever stop or if this is the thing that finally breaks Malcolm Bright. 

“Get me off the bed.” Malcolm says after he’s managed to breathe. 

JT helps Malcolm off of the bed, once again ignoring the pained sounds. and onto the nearest chair. “Better?”

Malcolm nods. “Yes. Thank you.” His face reddens. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You ain’t got to apologize for whatever you have to do to survive this shit.” 

Malcolm doesn’t say anything but he keeps a hand fisted in JT’s shirt. He’s keeping the man nearby. The blood has been washed from Malcolm’s hair and face. He looks more or less human if you didn’t look too hard at the haunted glaze to the man’s eyes. 

“S-say it again. Please.” 

“Say what?”

“You have me?” Malcolm isn’t sure if he’s making sense but he’s on enough drugs right now that he has an excuse. 

Realization dawns on JT. “Yeah. I got you. I ain’t going anywhere. I got you.” 

Slowly Malcolm relaxes. JT drags over the other chair and sets them close enough that Malcolm can lean against him.

“Walter told me, before he... “ Malcolm swallows, steeling himself. “Before h-he raped me, Walter told me that he had been watching me. That I had been teasing him. He must have had a spot nearby that allowed him to look without being seen.”

“I’ll let Gil know. We’ll take a look tomorrow.” 

“I want to come with you,” Malcolm says stubbornly. He’s bouncing back to himself quickly, faster than any of them could have guessed. JT has his doubts, though. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong but you’re probably on bedrest for what- a week? Ten days?”

“Two weeks,” Malcolm admits in a rush. “But I can help.”

“There’s not much of a case left to close, man. You worry about yourself for once, alright?”

Malcolm makes a suspiciously noncommittal noise but doesn’t argue. He still has a grip on JT, and they rest like that for a while with the drone on the television lulling them. 

Gil finds them like that some time later. The door opens so suddenly that JT nearly draws his weapon. 

“He should be in bed,” Gil says. The tone of his voice says that he doesn’t mean it. 

JT is shaking his head before Gil has finished speaking. “No disrespect, sir, but you didn’t see what I saw. I won’t blame him if he never gets on another bed again. And while we’re talking about it, I’m going to break the nose of whoever put those cuffs on him. That ain’t happening again. Not on my watch.”

The older man nods once. “Understood.” 


	3. Chapter 3

The punching bag swings from the force that JT hits it. He keeps getting looks for boxing in jeans and his work clothes, rather than workout gear. He came straight from the hospital and hasn’t gone home yet. He slept a big in the chair there, with Malcolm leaning against him. Until the nightmares became too much. He had dreamed about running up the stairs, and they just kept getting longer. JT had run to the sounds of Malcolm screaming. It had reached his ears from the bottom of the stairs, and it seemed even louder in his dreams. He kept running until suddenly he was at the foot of Malcolm’s bed but the cries had stopped by that time. TJ had woken up after that. Malcolm remained undisturbed at his side. 

So JT came to beat the shit out of something he didn’t have to pay attention to, something he didn’t have to worry about and could just work through his rage with. And then his phone rings. 

“Tarmel,” JT answers his phone. 

“JT, it’s Malcolm,” Gil says. “He checked himself out of the hospital AMA, we can’t find him. He isn’t answering his phone.”

JT is leaving the building before Gil has finished speaking. JT knows exactly where Malcolm is. Only an idiot would go back to his apartment after what just happened there. And that’s exactly where he finds Malcolm. Standing on the street, staring at his own front door like he’s trying to profile the thing. 

“Tell me,” JT says, trying not to startle the man. “Just how stupid are you?”

“Quite,” Malcolm replies in short answer. 

“Why’d you come back here? Ain't nothin' good coming outta this." 

“It’s here, or my mother’s. And I would rather my mother not find out about any of this.”

JT rolls his eyes. Like staying at that big ass mansion would be a hardship. Malcolm could have a nurse hired to take care of him for as long as he wanted, a chef to cook for him and a maid to do the dishes after. And yet here he was, trying to stare his own trauma down like some sort of moron with a death wish. 

And yet, JT can't blame the kid. How do you tell your own mother that you were raped? So no, JT won't give the kids any shit over that. 

"They should have the crime scene cleaned up, the place should be habitable." 

JT scowls in disbelief before he remembers who he's talking to. 

"Yeah, this isn't a bad idea at all." Still, he steps back and motions for Malcolm to lead the way up. 

Malcolm smiles but it looks wrong there. 

“And why not stay at the hospital, huh?”

There is a long pause before Malcolm answers. Instead, he unlocks the door. Malcolm thinks distantly that he wants to get the locks changed. Again. "Want to come in?" 

The entire first floor is eerily empty. Not a single table or chair. Not even a stray box. The windows are boxed up thoroughly, too. It all looks clean but still managed to look abandoned. JT follows Malcolm up the stairs at a snail's pace. At least he kid has the sense to use the crutches, but then judging by the snail's pace they're moving at, he may not have had a choice in the matter. It's only been three days, JT can't imagine the kind of pain the man is in. They get to the top of the stairs when Malcolm stops again. He turns to JT with a glance and then looks away. 

"They kept trying to make me sleep." Malcolm admits, all practiced nonchalance. "Someone on night shift thought the best form of treatment for my specific… situation…. Was to drug me and strap me down. For the night terrors, you know. I tend to be an active sleepwalker." 

JT swallows down the wave of rage until he can speak like a normal person. Malcolm is a rape victim, the answer to his sleepwalking should not be to tie him down to a bed. 

"Who did that?"

"It doesn't matter now." Malcolm tries to wave it off. "Thank you for helping me up the stairs. I can take it from here."

Malcolm is ready for some quiet. He needs time alone to process this and come to terms with it. He thinks maybe if he has enough time he can squeeze his newest trauma into a nice little box and stack it in the back of his mind with the rest. 

JT knows a dismissal when he sees one. Now that he helped Malcolm up the stairs, his services are no longer needed. 

"Is there someone I need to call for you?" Maybe his sister. A friend. Hell, Dani. 

"No, thank you. I think I would like some time to myself. I'm spent the last three days thinking about-" Malcolm stops. He doesn't need to elaborate. 

The scene has been cleaned up, mostly. The tape and markers have been thrown away, the sheets taken. But the evidence of what happened is still stained into the mattress in spots of rust. There are more than one from where Malcolm had shifted around, all different sizes. Blood stains. JT follows Malcolm's gaze to where it's caught there and JT has to look away. Instead he looks at Malcolm, who isn't moving, too stubborn or stupid to look away. 

Behind JT, beside the bed, Walter is touching himself. Malcolm stares, too afraid to look away. 

"Bright." 

Malcolm doesn't blink. He can't hear his part we calling his name. Even his breathing has stopped. He's staring at something that JT can't see. 

"Hey, man." When Malcolm doesn't respond JT lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You good?" 

Malcolm latches onto JT like a lifeline. It's easier to focus when the larger man is wrapped around him like a barrier. The smell of blood is covered with JT's cologne. The sight of the bed eclipsed by Malcolm shoving his face into JT's chest. Malcolm can't hear Walter panting or telling him how special and pretty he is because JT is there saying _ I got you _ over and over again until Malcolm can swallow the panic down to something manageable. 

He feels stupid. Malcolm has always thought himself to be an over educated, if awkward, disaster. But he's been trying. 

He has never felt as useless as he does now. He can't even get up the stairs on his own. He's hallucinating his rapist now. 

"I wasn't expecting that sort of adverse reaction," Malcolm admits. "But I know what to expect now. I'm fine if you want to go."

JT doesn't say the first thing that comes to mind, that Malcolm has never been less fine. But he isn't cruel, he knows his sarcasm can be biting and right now Malcolm has enough wounds. 

"Let me help." 

Malcolm scoffs. "I'll go to a hotel. My mother is best dealt with in small doses."

"You could do that." JT is regretting the offer before it even comes out of his mouth. "Or you could take my spare bedroom."

Malcolm lights up for the first time in days. His eyes widen and a smile finally grace's his face without looking like a physical sacrifice. He looks at JT like the man just offered him the moon. 

"You would do that?"

JT nods. "Yeah, man. Of course." 

The kid obviously needs help and isn't allowing anyone else close enough to offer. If it means keeping the kid from killing himself, even accidentally, then JT is here to help. 

"Grab your shit- no, on second thought, you stay here. Tell me what you want packed."

"There is a suitcase in the walk-in. The grey Armani with the blue tie, I think. And the Boss with the lavender accents." 

"You are not lounging around my couch in Armani suits. Not happening."

"Who said anything about lounging," Bright asks with wide innocent eyes that JT does not believe for a split second. 

"Your doctor," JT reminds him in a strict voice. 

"Right. Yes, of course. What do you suggest?"

"Sweatpants." JT says the word like most people say _ duh _. 

Malcolm agrees readily enough. He rambles while JT shoves clothes into the suitcase. He talks about his swords and weapons collection hanging on the wall, about the practical use of one versus another. And JT listens. He figures that if Malcolm is talking then he isn't panicking; if he's looking at the swords he's not staring at the bed. 

The suitcase isn't heavy and it's easy for JT to carry it and help Malcolm up. He fetches the crutches from where they had dropped earlier and Malcolm is careful not to look at the bed when he leaves. One panic is enough for now. 

********************

JT's apartment makes sense. There is a couch for guests left mostly unused against one wall, and a well-loved recliner in the corner, perfectly positioned to watch both the television and the entrance. The lamp table beside the chair has a bottle of aspirin, the TV remote, and several empty bottles of water. 

There is a small shelf at the end of the kitchen island that bad bar glasses and bottles set neatly. It's clean, but looks rarely used. JT will drink, Malcolm notes, but isn't an alcoholic. Years with his mother taught Malcolm the difference. 

The kitchen is cleaned and there are still dishes left on the drying rack. The spice rack is plentiful. A bowl of fruit is filled with bananas and apples for an easy snack. The pots and pans are well used. JT likes to cook, and he does it often. Nudging from the spice selection he prefers spicey to savory. The bread looks store bought, as is the pie. He likes to cook but not to bake. 

Everything is clean and organized, but not so thoroughly that it hinted of OCD. Malcolm drinks it in as he hobbles in behind JT. 

"Bathroom is to your left." 

The door is left closed. 

"Guest room is through here."

It's cozy. The bed is small compared to Malcolm's but he thinks quickly that this may be a good thing. It already has clean sheets and blankets on, ready for unexpected guests at a moment's notice. That sounds generous, Malcolm thinks. Just like his friend. There is a small bedside table with a lamp. JT leaves Malcolm's suitcase beside the dresser. 

"It ain't the Ritz but it'll do."

"It's perfect," Malcolm assures him. "Thank you."

Dinner that night is baked chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans. Malcolm acknowledges distantly that this is comfort food but it's so tasty that he doesn't care. He manages a few bites before he can't stomach any more and then he keeps picking until JT has finished. It doesn't take long, the man eats like he's still in the army, all quick efficient movements, stacking chicken and potato on one bite of fork. 

"Forget being a detective, you missed your calling as a private chef. I swear my mother pays hers six digits annually, and her baked chicken isn't nearly as good as this."

"You don't have to kiss my ass because I'm letting you crash in my guest room for a bit. Besides, it can't be that good if you won't eat it."

"Actually, I shouldnt be eating solid food yet. But this is good! Really, if you weren't such a good detective I would say you missed your calling."

"There's chicken soup, too," JT offers. 

"Why are you being nice? We weren't exactly close before… before," Malcolm finishes awkwardly. "Is it because you pity me, and that makes you want to help? Or do you feel responsible?"

"It's be side that's what friends do when something shitty happens- they eat good food. And I'd be some piece of work if I let you sleep in that bed."

Malcolm stares, a smile splitting his face with child-like glee. 

"We're friends?"

JT sighs, deep and heavy. This kid is a damn walking tragedy. "Yeah, man." 

  
  


*******************************

_ Walter's breath smells rotten and he's breathing right into Malcolm's face. He likes looking at Malcolm's face when he raped him. He's sweating, and Malcolm probably is, too. He feels sticky and hot and disgusting. And so fucking scared. _

_ "I have waited for you." Walter pants in Malcolm's ear. "So long watching, wanting, and it is everything I wanted it to be. I finally have you."_

_ "Glad I-I didn't d-disappoint." _

_ "Even now, you're still so smart. I had thought about what you would do, how you would act. I thought maybe you might scream more. But you're so quiet, you don't sob like the others. You're still so pretty. You look more like your mother, did you know? Except for these eyes, you're eyes are just like The Surgeon's."_

_ "My father w-wouldn't want you to-to do this." Malcolm can't seem to make his mouth work right. _

_ "I've told you before, little birdy." A particularly hard thrust makes Malcolm cry out. "This is all about you." Walter punctuates every word with a snap of his hips. _

"Stop!" The words fly out of Malcolm's mouth, panting for air he can't seem to find. "Stop, please." 

"Just me, man. Just me." 

"Don't touch me!"

"It was just a dream, man. Ain't nobody here but us."

Malcolm is still mostly trapped in his daydream. He doesn't see JT, or the room around him. 

"Not again, not again, please, not again." 

"Malcolm, look at me. I got you, okay? I got you."

JT reaches out and his hand hovers over Malcolm's shoulder before he pays gently, trying to pull his friend back to the present. Malcolm jumps. 

"No," Malcolm yelps. 

JT stands again, takes a step back. Malcolm is rocking with a full-bodied tremor, his eyes blown wide and scared. But he's staring at JT like he's afraid to look anywhere else. 

"You with me?"

Malcolm blinks. He seems to snap to like a rubber band. Finally he looks away, embarrassed. 

"Y-yeah. I'm, I'm here," Malcolm gasps. 

JT bends down to grab the crutch. Malcolm takes it. 

"Thank you. I think I'm going to try to sleep."

"Yeah, man. Okay."

Malcolm isn't sure what triggered him. He just wants to be alone. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry for the delay. Here's an update! Yayyyyyyy!

JT wakes up in the middle of the night for no real reason. He goes to the bathroom and gets a glass of water. On a whim he peaks through the open door of the guest room. He feels like a creep until he notices that the bed is still made. JT steps forward to take a better look. He taps on the doorframe, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to wake Malcolm if he's asleep.

"Bright?"

No answer. No Malcolm.

"Of course," he says to himself. He pulls out his phone and dials the only idiot to still be awake at this hour.

"Jafar," Malcolm greats with a cheery tone. "Good morning. What are you doing awake?"

"Take it easy on the names, man. It's quarter to two, where are you?"

"Working," Malcolm says like it's obvious.

"Except you're on medical leave until you can walk without crutches."

"Details. I'm at 1316 Burgundy street, if you want to join me. There's one hell of a view." Malcolm gives a funny laugh with that, and hangs up.

"Goddamnit, dude,” JT curses into the empty line. He throws on a pair of jeans from the hamper and locks up behind him when he leaves. He follows his phone’s directions to the address Malcolm had given him and as he gets nearer, the neighborhood becomes more familiar. He stops at the building across from Malcolm's place. All the lights are off but as soon as JT gets out he hears Malcolm call his name.

"Up here!" Malcolm is leaning out of a second floor window. The room looks dark through the window but Malcolm has the flashlight in his hand when he waves. JT follows his lead, grabs his own light from the center console.

"What are you doing? Get your scrawny ass down here."

"You have to see this!"

JT starts inside the building with a sigh. Of course it's Malcolm to make him climb stairs at ass o'clock in the morning. Luckily the building isn't exactly a maze, though it looks mostly abandoned. He isn't sure if this building is even legally habitable. Only some of the lights work and JT fires up his flashlight.

He finds Malcolm sitting on the floor, his crutches cast aside. The place is littered with papers, snack wrappers, and tissues that JT carefully avoids. There is a tripod set up by the window. Malcolm has the camera plugged into the wall beside him as he looks through a book. One of the papers on the floor catches JT's eye to take a closer look. He leans to pick it up. They're printed photos of Malcolm. Some of them are mundane, like feeding the bird or making a drink. Others are less casual; Malcolm bare with his hair still wet from the shower, or in bed. JT bets that if he stood by the tripod he could match the angle the camera had as it took pictures through Malcolm's bay window.

"Bright, tell me this isn't what I think it is, man." JT takes one more long look over the room. The place creeps him out.

"It is!" Malcolm exclaims, eerily enthused about the situation. "This is Walter's nest! It's fascinating, the way that he meant to capture me in the photos almost details his growing obsession." Malcolm's arms wave animatedly as he speaks. JT can see that something isn't quite right, but as usual he has a hard time getting a read on Malcolm. "Notice how the beginning of the book has the newspaper clippings- first of my father and then of me as his attention shifts focus off of The Surgeon. That's when the photos of me begin, the graduation pictures, the candids."

Malcolm flips through pages of the book while JT looks over his shoulder. Some of them look like magazine clippings and pages from interviews, both as an FBI agent and more recently with the NYPD. There are feathers that JT recognizes from Malcolm's pet bird. Occasionally Malcolm runs his hands over a picture like it means something.

"Oh! I remember this suit. One of my favorites. Mother thought it was too flamboyant. Maybe I should make it my LinkedIn photo, what do you think? Notice how he takes the photos from the new angle rather than from the street? I suppose that’s when he found this place.” Malcolm flips the page to an edited photo of him changing clothes. “Yikes, I need to get that mole checked out."

"Do I wanna know what's on that camera" JT dares to ask.

"I think it's charged enough. Let's see."

The video starts, the angle adjusting and then the focus. Malcolm's window comes into frame, and then Malcolm. JT's gut fills with dread. They watch Malcolm on camera strip before he climbs into bed. JT might enjoy the view more if it were under different circumstances.

They hear Walter walk away from the camera, hear the door close behind him. After that, everything sits in silence. Malcolm fast forwards until there is movement again. Through Malcolm's window, they see Walter come in. He stands by Malcolm's bed, staring. Watching it makes the hair on the back of JT’s neck stand up. The man stares for so long that Malcolm gets bored and starts fast forwarding again. According to the time stamps, it was a half an hour.

"Who the fuck watches someone sleep for thirty five minutes?" JT shudders.

"Obsessive homicidal rapists."

Walter gets on the bed. JT looks at Malcolm beside him and waits for Malcolm to turn the thing off. Only, he doesn't. He keeps watching past where Walter cuts his clothes off and strips him. Past where Walter strips himself.

"I don't wanna watch this." JTs stomach is churning.

Walter has Malcolm bent in half. Malcolm is watching his own rape and he isn't even flinching. And he isn’t moving to turn the camera off.

"Bright,” JT tries again. “Turn it off, man."

The camera had enough focus that he could see Malcolm screaming on screen.

"Malcolm!"

Beside JT, Malcolm isn't moving. He's staring fixated at the screen, unblinking. He isn't even breathing.

"That's enough." JT takes the camera away, closes the screen. Malcolm hasn't moved. He's staring at the blank space where the camera had been. JT waits for some sort of reaction; sarcasm, realization, something. But the kid is a blank slate. The lights were on but nobody was home.

"Jesus, you really ain't right in the head. Hey, look at me. Bright, Malcolm. Come back to me, man."

Malcolm flinches, his head jerking sideways. He looks at JT squatting in front of him.

"I'm fine." Malcolm stops. He looks up at JT. "You called me Malcolm."

The light is dancing around the room from Malcolm's shaking hand. JT gently grabs the end and pulls it from Malcolm's grip. He sets one on the floor to light the room and focuses the other.

JT shakes his head. "What's going on in that head of yours, man?"

"I need to find a good dermatologist." Malcolm says with the brightest smile, like nothing is wrong. Save, that is, for the hollow look in his eyes that makes JT wonder just how well-placed that mask is. He shouldn't be surprised at Malcolm's reaction, it's a very Malcolm-like response to the situation. But regardless, any normal person would be crying and screaming after they watched their own rape video. And that's another thing, who in their right mind watches their own rape video? This kid is fucked up in the head, but JT suspects that Malcolm is more upset than he's letting on.

"Are you seriously joking right now? This isn't funny, cracking jokes doesn't make you tough."

"No, I'm- sorry. It's not that I'm trying to play tough. I'm just trying to make sense of things. Until Walter was on top of me, I didn't even know I had a stalker. That man had been watching me for months. Years. Did you know he was actually a fan of The Surgeon's murders? He told me. He followed The Surgeon's articles, they're clipped and pasted in this book, from the first missing person to the last. He would have had to search for and clip the articles after the details of the victims came out. Very classic obsessive love disorder. It is a little strange how his subject changed, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Well he was stalking Doctor Whitley for years before he moved onto me. I would have been a mere blip on his radar until…" Malcolm pauses.

JT watches Malcolm flip through the book, past the pages of Doctor Whitley's cases. Until he hits the first page that has Malcolm.

"This page isn't as worn," Malcolm says. He runs a finger over the seal of the page, rubbing over the residue of glue. "It's been added in, in chronological order. He filled the holes. This happened before I became his new target."

"So why did he move onto you? Just because of who your father is, or what?"

Malcolm doesn't look up from the book. He scans each page carefully while JT holds the flashlight up with steady hands. He lands on one that JT doesn't find any more notable than the others. But Malcolm seems to find it interesting.

"This is it. This is the- the first time W-Walter added me."

JT comes closer for a better look. His eyes are tired and he comes close enough to touch Malcolm's shoulder with his own. It ‘s a scrap from a magazine, showing a paparazzi photo of a much younger Malcolm. His hair is shorter, his face clean of stubble. He looks even more exhausted. His eyes look manic even through the paper of the trashy tabloid.

JT reads the headline out loud. “Son of Surgeon Solves Triple Homicide.”

“My first big case with the FBI… Walter said I was… that I was ‘exceptional.’ ‘Exquisite.’ Be-because of my lineage. Like a pedigree.” Malcolm’s throat bobs as he swallows. He glances at JT before he looks away. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I feel very… exquisite. Or even particularly human.”

“You’re more than that.” JT can’t stop the urge to reassure Malcolm. “You know that the team sees you as more than just the son of The Surgeon. And more than just your money, too. We’re your friends. Just remember that when you get all… squirrelly.”

For a while, Malcolm doesn’t say anything. “W-we should call Gil. Or… or whoever got assigned to my case.”

“I got it.”

Malcolm calls, knowing Gil will pick up regardless of the time. He gives Gil the address. JT has to help him up off the floor when Gil arrives with someone else’s team to take the evidence from there. Even if Walter is already dead, there is still the investigation against JT. And Malcolm will always do whatever he can to help a situation.

“What were you thinking, Bright? Coming out here in the middle of the night, alone. To investigate your own case. I understand that you’re struggling, but this is out of line.”

“I was part of his evolution,” Malcolm says.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone possibly wanna beta/cheerreader? Feel free to find me on tumblr @booksaboutgay


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